Frankie FM
by azure-tears
Summary: One sided MacxFrankie Every night, Mac's been standing outside her window with his radio...


Author's Note/Disclaimer: This is a one-shot, repeat, one-shot. I cannot picture Mac straight easily. If I do make him straight again, it'll probably be a Goo/Mac. I love that girl.

At any rate, this song was inspired by "Niki FM" by Hawthorne Heights (which was, btw, on repeat for a great deal of its writing). It's probably not my best writing, but I had to finish it. It haunted me.

Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends does not belong to me.

Frankie FM

The wintry wind breezed through his chestnut hair and reddened his already frigid face. Tonight, he'd forgotten his gloves, but he hardly noticed. Carrying a boom box and hoisting it over his head, he blasted it in the hopes she'd hear it. Every night for the past month, he'd sojourned from his apartment to Foster's and played this song for her. So far, he didn't think she'd noticed. Nonetheless, his spirit remained intact- eventually, she'd have to open a window and hear him.

Mac's breath lingered in front of his face; his nose itched, but he daren't lower the radio to scratch. He'd learned to temper himself and control sneezes, itches, and the occasional bangs draping over his eyes. The cold, his frozen digits, stiff legs and arms no longer bothered him the way they used to. Standing outside for an hour and playing love songs nightly conditioned him and taught him there was no pain without gain.

When he was eight, he'd developed a crush on her, but he hadn't honestly thought it'd plague him into his teen years. Yet here he was, sixteen, hopelessly in love with her. He'd told himself there was no point, considering their age difference, but daydreams only encouraged him. He couldn't stop thinking of her, no matter how hard he tried. It'd gotten to the point where Bloo, disgusted, told him to snap out of it. Mac's decision to stand out here wasn't Bloo's…it was his own.

His watch chirped ten o'clock, the latest he could stay out without suspicion. Terrence would come home from wherever he spent his day, his mother would return from work, and if the apartment was empty, it'd look uncouth. His explanation would be pathetic, too. Chasing after a woman who would never have him and blasting his radio to get her attention- once Terrence was done laughing his bloody head off, he'd wish he were dead. And then, of course, there'd be the fact he'd never let him live it down.

Still, he wanted to push the envelope a little. Maybe staying out a few minutes later would get her attention. His arms were cramping, but if he could raise them just an inch higher…

There was nothing. No answer. Defeated, Mac trooped home and rubbed his sore arms gingerly. At least he gained upper body strength by hoisting that thing up and down every night. That didn't taper the disappointment, however. Why wasn't she paying attention? What was he doing wrong?

* * *

Frankie curled up on her bed and sighed, wrapping her arms around a pillow. Contrary to Mac's thoughts, she _had _heard the songs every single night. She'd listened since he started, too. That wasn't the problem. The problem _was_…she didn't know quite how to break it to him that she wasn't and would never be interested. He was such a sweetheart (stubborn, too), but she knew if she told him the truth, he'd be crushed.

Unfortunately, though _he _might have gotten older and matured both physically and emotionally, she still saw him the same way she had when he was eight- as a child. At best, he was like a little brother to her; at worst, a son. Frankly, he was old enough to be her child, too. Not that _that _particular tidbit helped any, either.

She had to break it to him eventually, though. If he wasn't careful, he'd catch pneumonia. The nights kept growing colder and she knew hiking over here in single digit temperatures was far from healthy. The longer she delayed telling him, the worse it would be for both of them, health notwithstanding. She only wished she knew _how_.

* * *

Arms sore, he barely scrambled up the fire escape and into his room. Since it was already ten twenty, too late to try entering through the main door, he'd tested his endurance once more. Right now, though he'd gained admittance, he thought his arms were going to fall off. Not to mention he'd left the damn boombox…outside. Crap.

Breathing quickly on his frostbitten fingers, he groped for the window release to retrieve it when he saw an unwelcome figure standing on the metal. Mentally swearing, he glared, but his gaze melted when he saw the object twirled on his finger. Terrence had the CD he'd specifically made for Frankie. The color drained from his face, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He wanted to speak, really, and beg for it back, but his mind, mouth, and vocal chords were having a violent disagreement.

"What'cha been up to, little bro?" he said amicably, like the two had been having a conversation about the weather. Meanwhile, all his hopes and dreams spun on his finger; the raven haired boy was now whirling it around with his other hand. He shot Mac a very nasty grin and his stomach somersaulted. He had to know this was important. Why else would he be doing this? He wished he'd leave him alone…

"Or should I just pop this in and find out?" he said, grinning wickedly. "Let the whole neighborhood hear what you've been up to?"

He couldn't even move to protest. Honestly, he yearned to, but his limbs, much like his tongue, had frozen. Terrence's grey eyes, alight with malice, sparkled as he hoisted the white boombox, inserted the CD, and hit play. Mac's stomach had officially left his body; he wasn't quite certain where it'd wound up, but it was nowhere near the apartment. His voice, he was pretty sure, had decided to join it.

The maudlin sounds of Lifehouse's "Everything" filled the alley and the street beyond. Mac stumbled backwards, but how, he couldn't say. After all, his legs weren't listening to his brain and they were still stiff as boards. Lamentably, his tongue hadn't unhinged itself and he wasn't moving forward to lunge for the CD. The floor wasn't raising up to swallow himself into it, either.

Five agonizing minutes later, the song finally finished. Rather than let "Touched" by Vast burn his eardrums, Terrence shut it off. Another minute passed where the two brothers glanced at each other and Mac steeled himself. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. Maybe Terrence would understand. Then again, maybe real, non imaginary pigs would fly and Mr. Herriman would stop being such a Scrooge.

Unable to contain himself, the older sibling burst into laughter. Not light, teasing chuckles, either, but deep, booming, mocking, derisive guffaws that pierced through the night. He'd known he'd practically be pounding the floor hysterically, but that didn't brace the impact. Mac wasn't sure he wanted to curse the boy out, hit him, or flee before he endured any more. All three options looked pretty appealing right now.

"Who…who…who is this for?" he choked between howls. "What… loser are you in love with?"

The roof of his mouth, his tongue, and his vocal chords abruptly agreed with each other. His tongue flapped back down, his teeth gritted, and he snarled. The humiliation had vanished, replaced by fury. Forget fleeing- he was going to make him pay for calling Frankie a loser.

"She's _not _a loser," he snapped, striding forward and rescuing his items. Haplessly, his face swiftly turned as red as his object's hair. But that didn't still his tongue. No one called Frankie that and got away with it. Who was he, anyway, but a punk? He hadn't changed over the years, he'd gotten worse. And, through the years, he'd had to put up with his teasing, abuse, and threats. Well, that was acceptable (sort of) compared to this.

"It's a 'she'?" he replied, smirking. "Are you sure?"

The implication reddened his cheeks further, balled his fists to the point where his nails dug into his palm, and he ground his teeth. Of course, he had to insinuate that. Because regardless of whether it was true or not, he had to knock him down any way possible. Gritting his teeth, he snatched the boombox and CD, stormed out of his room, and out of the apartment door. Enough was enough. He was going to find out if Frankie liked him once and for all.

* * *

The clock chimed eleven when he arrived, but he ignored it. Because he frequently visited, he withdrew a key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and let himself in. Though the lights in the foyer were on, not a sound could be heard. Most of the denizens had fallen asleep and those awake were chary not to rouse the others. Some nodded mutely upon his arrival, but others ignored him. Fine, let them. He wasn't here to see them anyway.

Cautiously easing his way up the stairs, he halted on the landing. He knew where Frankie's room was from the window side, but not its exact location within the house. Bewildered, hoping he wouldn't get lost in his heart's quest, he randomly took a corridor, listened for any movements, and prayed someone else would know where to find her. He'd been in her room once before, but she might have changed rooms since then or…well…maybe he was getting flustered. Surely he ought to know where it was after all this time? Walking in circles wasn't going to help any…

Smack. In his delirium, he'd walked straight into the person he sought. Rubbing his head gingerly, an incredible blush consumed his face and he mumbled apologetically, all the while grinning like an idiot. Here she was, but now what? If he couldn't remember where she slept, how on earth was he going to formulate a coherent sentence? Particularly about something as mind numbingly important as this?

"Mac," she said, rubbing her own forehead. "I didn't expect to see you this late. Bloo's asleep."

"I know," he blurted, then immediately mentally kicked himself. "I mean, I'm not here to see him. I'm here to see _you_."

The joviality dropped out of her voice and she suddenly became rather stern. Sighing heavily, she indicated he follow her and, like a puppy, he trailed obediently after. Wilt poked his head out of a nearby room, waved to Mac, who bewilderedly waved back. Frankie paid him no mind, but instead breezed straight ahead as though he'd never beckoned in the first place. Determinably, she sidestepped every single imaginary friend who called, waved, or otherwise cried out to her and directed Mac into her room.

"Sit," she said stiffly, pointing to her bed. Blinking, he did as he was told and watched her take a seat in the computer chair by her desk. There was a great deal of space between the two, rather ominous. He swallowed hard, wondering if this was such a great idea. He wished the blood would rush back out of his face as quickly as it had fled up there.

"Frankie, I…" he started, wondering where his courage had come from.

Holding up her hand, she stopped him. Sighing once more, she folded her arms across her chest and wondered how to best phrase this. Silence passed, each second like a death march. Mac wanted to look away, but whatever courage led him to speak first had evaporated. Frozen, he stared at her like a deer caught in the headlights. Whatever was about to happen was going to make him miserable, he knew. But somehow, he couldn't bring himself to leave, much like he couldn't shift his eyes.

"Mac, I know you've been standing outside my window and playing your CD every night. I've heard," she said and he sat up straighter, almost proudly. The glimmers of a smile crossed his face.

"And it has to stop. You're very sweet and some day, you're going to make some girl very happy, but it's not going to be me, pal. I know you might think you're in love with me (and I've seen the way you look at me), but there's just no chance I'll return your feelings. I'm sorry."

The words hit him like a freight train. Heart broken, he dropped his gaze onto the carpet and fought the tears welling in his eyes. Wordlessly, he rose and sped out before he lost his dignity.

* * *

_You never forget your first love…_

_It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all…_

Mac tossed rose petals into a water fountain and scowled. Whoever said those things should get their heads examined. Unrequited love was quite possibly one of the worst things in the world- how could this get better? How could his gaping, bleeding heart possibly improve?

"Hiya," a familiar voice called and he looked up, removing his head from his hands. Hair still braided, t-shirt just as insane as it'd been eight years ago, Goo smiled brightly at him. She sat beside him on the bench, wrenched the rose out of his hand, and waggled a finger admonishingly. He was immensely grateful she'd stopped being so hyper over the years, otherwise she would have driven him mad once more.

"Hey, Goo," he said dully, wishing he had his rose back. She tossed it noncommittally onto the track where a passing jogger stampeded it. Ouch.

"You know, it doesn't always have to be like that," she murmured softly and he cocked his head at her.

"You might think it hurts badly now, but it'll get better. Trust me. 'Sides, if she _were _the one for you, don't you think she would have stopped you from killing your arms holding up that boombox?" she said, grinning widely. Dumbstruck, he stared blankly and she explained herself.

"I've heard things around Foster's," she said simply and offered him her hand. When he didn't take it, she smirked.

"Fine, be that way. But don't sulk. You'll ruin that face."

Giving him a comforting hug, she skipped off, leaving him to his own thoughts.

* * *

Months passed and the throbbing pain that had once been had faded into a dull ache. When he did run into Frankie, she offered him a weak smile, one he never returned. Now, at least, he understood about growing pains- sometimes, the truth hurts. But, maybe with time, it'd stop and he'd get over it. Maybe, in time, he'd find someone else…

"Hey, Goo, wait up!"

* * *


End file.
